The Book of Salazar
by The Lemur and the Wolf
Summary: Four friends. Four houses. Four young witches and wizards growing up in the shadow of Voldemort's rise. Follow Vera, Mai, Malcolm and Derek as they struggle through Year 1 at Hogwarts. Please R&R! Flames discouraged.


**The Book of Salazar: Houses United, Book One**

This chapter is written by: Lemur

**Malcolm Bell**

The small family looked almost normal as they hurried through the throngs of people waiting with suitcases and bags for their train to come. They darted around the larger groups and broke right through the smaller ones. Cross mutterings of the trampled turned to wary whispers of awe or disgust as the spotted the people who did it.

Their whisperings were not unfounded. The Bell family was not unidentifiable to say the least, and their distinguishing features were easy to pick out from a crowd.

Little Linda Bell, just over five feet, the proud matriarch of her family, was, to say the least, stunning. Her long black ringlets tumbled down her back, striking against the scarlet cloaks of The Department of Experimental Charms. Her skin was pale and smooth for a woman of thirty-eight, emphasizing her eyes of periwinkle blue. She walked with a graceful, bouncing gait as she led her merry band along between the platforms.

But if you looked closely, there were the little things-gray hairs spiraling down the ringlets, crows' feet at the edges of her eyes. The eyes themselves were more gray than they were blue, and her rosy lips were pursed in a vague imitation of a smile. That, added to the hand grasping her wand tightly inside her purse, came to an altogether grim picture.

Malcolm, her son, came second. Tall and ungainly, he was clad in fairly normal attire, and the trolley he dragged behind him had a somewhat peeling, but otherwise normal trunk sitting upon it. Atop the trunk was perched a small wicker carrying case, from which mewling sounds reminiscent of a young cat were emanating. All this would be perfectly normal if a long, slender pink tongue had not been twined around one of the wicker twines, flickering back and forth in search of a meal.

But what most passerby were staring at was Malcolm's shock of blue-purple hair. At the sides and the roots it was a deep indigo, slowly ebbing into violet and then bright purple. Malcolm had it gelled into small spikes, ridging along his head. He was grimacing slightly; partly from the effort of pulling the trunk, partly from the malevolent whispers from around him.

"Kids these days, dying their hair unnatural colors."

"Despicable! Really."

"Purple hair! Whatever next?"

"Damned gangsters. We should send them off to jail so they can't disturb society with their dyed hair and tattoos in unmentionable places."

Harold Bell, a rotund Irishman with a ruddy complexion, gave a nasty glare at the speaker of this last comment, who happened to be a white-haired old lady in a wheelchair. She gasped and gave such a horrified look to her friend that the group began tittering again.

Harold was rather red-faced with the exertion of keeping up with his wife and son, and he looked as though not quite sober. His green wizard's hat was bent halfway up and was lopsided on his head. His robes were mud stained. As a picture, he was quite frightening.

Mothers snatched little children out of his way and fathers moved protectively in front of their wives. Children whimpered as he stalked by. In turn, Harold muttered curses and clutched his oak wand tighter.

"Come now Mal! Do hurry. If we're late for the train- well, I don't fancy driving across the country in this weather. Here we are!"

Linda's remonstrations were cut short as they arrived at platforms nine and ten. She exchanged a quick glance with her husband and wordlessly pushed through the barrier, brandishing her wand of black ebony before her. Harold nodded and laid his hand on Malcolm's shoulder, steering him through the barrier and following just behind.

Malcolm emerged on the other side of the barrier, blinking in the light drizzle of rain. Instantly, a security wizard with a name badge declaring him "Randy Blathersbee" materialized with a loud crack, blocking their way.

"All who intend to enter the gateway are hereby required by Wizarding law to submit to searching for dark materials on account of certain dark magicians at large," drawled Randy. "Hurry up, now. We got folks waiting."

Malcolm's mum looked a little put out as she was prodded by enough Dark detectors and Probity Probes to fill a shop in Diagon Alley. Mal knew they were talking about the anti-muggle serial killer, Tom "Voldemort" Riddle. His mom had forbade him to speak about it, but everyone knew already. There was a sort of tension that was forbidden to speak of but always present, always right there, like a stench that wouldn't, couldn't go away.

This guy targeted muggles and muggle supporters. His mom seemed to think that if they didn't talk about it, the threat would go away, but Mal thought it was kinda cool that they had a real criminal on the loose. Right near their house, too.

It sure was a kick in the face to the government, anyway. Malcolm had heard on the radio that they had offered this guy a job before he went insane. They should rethink their recruitment policies.

He had heard it from Eliza at his old school. She was slightly snobby, but the only other kid with magical blood and thus the only one up-to-date on the news. Her brother had been turned down as a secretary just because he carried a curse ring for protection. According to Eliza, he had been nearly thrown in jail, except that he had some contacts in the Department of Magical Law.

So Malcolm submitted to the bruise-inducing pokes and prods with the Probes with relative interest. When he was booted out of the swarm, following his mom, he paused a moment to let his father catch up. His dad was sweating and cursing, having had to be forcibly restrained before he would allow them to use the Dark Detectors.

"Damned officials, think they know everything. Linda, what's the time?"

"Don't curse, dear, and it's still five 'til. Best get Malcolm and his things aboard," replied Malcolm's mum absentmindedly. "Look, is that Raphael? Yes, I think his daughter is a fourth year. He married Cecilia, we were all shocked, of course. You know, sometimes I think that he did it just to send old Morticus into a fury. It certainly worked, the old fellow never was the same afterwards, got all sorts of illnesses. Dalia thinks Marcus, his old broomstick designer cursed him with a nasty one, invented it himself, but there's no proof. All the same…"

As Malcolm's mother chattered on, Mal wandered off towards the train. He knew that if he tried to wait for his mum to finish talking, he'd never make the train. Ignoring Natterling's squeals of disgust as the trunk bounced over the cobbles, he hefted the luggage up over the steps and into the train.

Red-faced with the exertion, the trunk made a horrible grinding noise as he wiggled and pushed it through the doorway. After nearly a full minute, he squeezed into the narrow corridor.

Full, full, full, partly full, but the occupants looked nasty, full, prefects, full, one seventh year, full, full…

EMPTY! In his delight at finally locating a suitable compartment, Malcolm nearly walked into the sliding glass door. Rubbing his forehead, he jerked on the handle and nearly fell over as it zipped open at the lightest touch. _Magically lubricated. Ouch._

The trunk was heavy, and it took all of his strength to lift it up to the overhead compartment. It was slightly too big, and it looked as though a tiny jolt would send it flying. With the harder task over with, Mal easily wedged his puffskein's basket over the seat.

"Eww!" yelped Macolm, and then, looking around to see if anyone had heard him, carefully extricated Natterling's tongue from his ear.

Natterling was a particularly vivacious puffskein that Malcolm had received as a 9th birthday present. A becoming shade of peachy amber, he took pleasure in disrespecting Mal's personal space with a long flexible tongue. He had grown intensely attatched to Mal, or at least Malcolm's earwax, and threw fits whenever Mal left for too long. It was as a direct result from this that Natter was coming along at all. Fearing he might level the house, Mal's parents had gotten permission from the school to send Natter with Mal.

Now he seemed particularly unwilling to dislodge his tongue from Malcolm's ear. "Cut it out, Natter! I have to say goodbye to Mum and Dad before the train leaves."

He seized Natterling's tongue and wound it around the wicker twine of the basket into a large knot, observing the whole process with satisfaction. _That should take a few minutes to get out of._

Dismal mewling from Natterling and a few sad attempts to wriggle free.

"Relax! I promise I'll be back in a few minutes, in one piece. Ears and all."

It seemed that Natterling was willing to be warily happy with this promise, but the puffskein had a foreboding look in his eye as Mal edged out of the compartment and into the corridor once more.

"Mum! Dad! I gotta go!" called Mal, poking his head out of the train door.

"Mal!" It was Malcolm's mum, looking flurried and disheveled. She hugged him quickly, then held him out at arm's length as though he had contracted some deadly disease. "Where have you been? The whole station's in uproar, we couldn't find you anywhere!"

Mal flinched. "Sorry, I just went to put my luggage up. What's wrong?"

She tensed. "There are… certain … dangers… of moving about too freely in times like this."

"You mean this Voldemort guy?" asked Malcolm, exasperated. Mum would always dance around the point, never actually reaching it if he didn't make her.

But all of a sudden, she froze in place, not breathing, not blinking, eyes fixed on a spot just above Malcolm's head. "Mal, don't move. Speak softly, and get back on the train."

"What do you mean?" he breathed, catching on at once but not wanting to move.

"Just do it. I'll explain later. No… sudden… moves."

A sudden terrified scream from behind and a loud bang. Flashes of light at his peripheral vision. He whipped around, and one of the masked figures spotted him and his mum.

"Get them!" he snarled in a carrying whisper. His voice was rough and just hearing it made Mal want to clear his throat. However, just then his attention was more focused on the bird perched on the man's arm over a leather carrying glove. It was scarlet and looking at it made Mal's eyes water. Around one leg a circle of silver light glowed. A spellbinding ring. The falcon was a phoenix.

And now, as the phoenix swooped towards him, his mum shoved him forcefully up the train passage and yelled "_Protego Maximus! _Malcolm, get out of here!"

His last sight was a phoenix swooping down upon his mother, undeterred by the protection spells, talons extended and flaming, but his last thought was even more morbid: _I have a freaking prophetic puffskein._


End file.
